Page 33 of The Armor of Light

Braced by that optimistic thought, Amos left the office by the street door and headed for the Hornbeam residence.

It was north of the High Street, near St Mark’s Church, in a formerly run-down neighbourhood where old cheap terraces had been flattened to make room for large new houses with stables. Hornbeam’s place had symmetrical windows and a portico with marble columns. Amos recalled his father saying that Hornbeam had hired a cheap Bristol architect, given him a pattern book of Robert Adam’s designs, and demanded a low-cost version of a classical palace. To one side and slightly behind the main building was a stable yard where a carriage was being washed by a shivering groom.

A footman opened the door. He had a lugubrious look, and when Amos asked for Alderman Hornbeam the man said: ‘I’ll see if he’s in, sir,’ in a mournful voice.

Stepping inside, Amos immediately felt the atmosphere of the house: dark, formal, strict. A tall clock ticked loudly in the hall, and a couple of straight-backed chairs made of polished oak offered scantcomfort. There was no carpet. Above a cold fireplace, in a gilt frame, was a portrait of Hornbeam, looking stern.

While he was waiting Hornbeam’s son, Howard, appeared from a basement staircase like a family secret coming to light. He was a big fellow, affable enough when away from his father. Amos and Howard had been together at Kingsbridge Grammar School; Howard was a couple of years younger and something of a dunce. The father’s brains and forceful personality had been inherited by his younger child, Deborah, who had not been allowed to attend the grammar school, of course.

Howard greeted Amos and they shook hands. The doleful footman reappeared and said Mr Hornbeam would see Amos. Howard said: ‘I’ll take him there, Simpson.’ He led Amos to a door at the back of the hall and showed him into Hornbeam’s study, then withdrew.

The room was like a cell: no rugs, no pictures, no draperies, and a mean fire in the small fireplace. Hornbeam sat behind a desk, still wearing his funeral clothes. He was in his late thirties, with a fleshy face and heavy eyebrows. He hastily took off a pair of spectacles, as if embarrassed to need them. He did not ask Amos to sit down.

Amos was not a complete stranger to hostility, and he was not intimidated by Hornbeam’s coolness. He had met disgruntled weavers and spinners, and unhappy customers, and he knew they could be mollified. He said: ‘Thank you for coming to my father’s funeral, sir.’

Hornbeam was socially awkward, and now he shrugged, an inappropriate response. He said: ‘We were both aldermen.’ After a moment he added: ‘And friends.’

He did not offer tea or wine.

Standing in front of the desk like a misbehaving schoolboy, Amos said: ‘I’ve come to see you because I’ve just learned that Father had been borrowing money from you. He never told me.’

Hornbeam just said: ‘A hundred and four pounds.’

Amos smiled. ‘And thirteen shillings and eight pence.’

Hornbeam did not smile back. ‘Yes.’

‘Thank you for helping him in his hour of need.’

Hornbeam did not want to be seen as dispensing largesse. ‘I’m not a philanthropist. I charged him interest.’

‘At five per cent.’ For a risky personal loan it was not extortionate.

Hornbeam clearly did not know what to say to that, so he just inclined his head in acknowledgement.

Amos realized that his charm was ineffective against Hornbeam’s flinty indifference. He said: ‘However, it’s now my duty to repay the loan.’

‘Indeed it is.’

‘I didn’t create the problem, but I must solve it.’

‘Go on.’

Amos collected his thoughts. He had a plan, and it was a good one, he thought. Perhaps it was good enough to overcome Hornbeam’s irascibility. ‘First, I have to make the business profitable, so that no more loans will be required. Father had accumulated old stock that had been unpopular with customers: I will drop the price to get rid of it. And I want to concentrate on finer cloths that can be sold for higher prices. That way I believe I can turn a profit in a year. I hope to begin repayments on New Year’s Day in 1794.’

‘Do you?’

This was not an encouraging response. Hornbeam should surely have been happier to know he was going to get his money back. But he had always been taciturn.

Amos ploughed on. ‘Then I hope to make the business even more profitable so that I can increase the speed of repayment.’

‘And how would you do that?’

‘By expansion, mainly. I will look for more spinners, so that I have a reliable supply of yarn, and then more weavers.’

Hornbeam nodded, almost as if he approved, and Amos felt a little better.

In the hope of getting a clearer endorsement he said: ‘I hope you feel my plan is practical.’